Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

She leans back on her chair, plainly delighted with herself.

The chair creaks.

‘You’ve simply got to include all that fabulous “inundation” imagery,’ I gasp (camping it up a little), ‘in the DVD extras for your motivational video.’

She completely ignores this, simply laying both hands flat on to the table-top, delivering me a brilliant smile and proudly announcing: ‘Black Sabbath, Volume IV. “Under The Sun”.’

Three seconds pass us.

‘ Urgh , been there,’ I finally grouch, ‘ done that.’

Didn’t have her down for a heavy rocker, somehow.

You think I was a little harsh?

You do ?

Well, on Monday she texted ‘The Thrills, “Don’t Steal Our Sun”.’

Tuesday: ‘Donovan, “I’ll Try For The Sun”.’

Wednesday: ‘The Libertines, “Don’t Look Back Into The Sun”.’

Talk about grabbing a baton and running with it.

Then catching you up and beating you senseless with the damn thing.

Again and again and again.

And again .

My level?

Okay. I confess. I did go twice. Three times. But that’s all.

And it was always completely spontaneous (a totally last-minute decision). And late. Always late. And I stayed on the bridge — well back, virtually invisible (just a few feet, literally, beyond the halfway point).

From this considerable distance she was just a blob, a blur. But I could tell it was Aphra (It’s all in the posture, see? The tilt of the head, the jut of the chin…).

One night it rained — a steady rain — but she stayed on. She’d brought an umbrella with her (that particularly childish, transparent kind), and she put it up and just sat there. It would’ve made an amazing photograph (the light, the transparency, his transparency beyond her). But I hadn’t brought my camera along.

Missed opportunity, eh?

I got wet that night; stood in the lee of the second gate and it almost sheltered me, although on a couple of occasions (but not this one) bridge officials moved me on.

Four times. I went four times. The fourth time I bumped into Punk’s Not. Or he bumped into me. He was carrying six steaming cartons of hot coffee over the bridge in a specially adapted plastic tray.

‘It’s three fifty-seven on a Thursday morning,’ he blared, tapping me on my shoulder, quite unexpectedly, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

(Almost having a heart attack, you fucker . Don’t just tap me like that.)

‘Late shift at work,’ I say airily, ‘just heading home.’

(Then I turn and face the other way, like I’m right in the middle of my very important journey.)

‘What?’ he scoffs. ‘The mayor really needed some pencils sharpening and simply couldn’t wait until dawn?’

‘Backlog,’ I sniff, ‘I’ve had flu, as it happens.’

‘Hilary too,’ he says.

‘How hilar ious,’ I quip smugly.

(Ah, vengeance .)

‘So fucking funny he shat himself,’ Punk’s Not muses.

‘Yeah,’ I nod, ‘ I had that symptom.’

He offers me a cup of coffee.

‘Oh, Thanks ,’ I say, and take one.

‘i-Pod.’

Punk’s Not points enviously towards my new technology.

‘I mean that man’s really the tick sucking on the pock-eaten arse of Performance Art,’ I harp on, bilefully, nodding (meanwhile: Yup. This is the i-Pod, this is my baby) as I pull off the lid.

‘Apparently they really compress the sound,’ he says.

‘ What ?’ I glance up.

He draws his finger and thumb together (to demonstrate), ‘They compress the sound. To save space. Rendering the music a little…’ he muses, ‘tinny.’

(The bitch )

‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘I’ve seen him on .’

‘Who?’

( Tinny ? Is he serious?)

‘Hilary.’

‘ On ?’

He nods.

(I quickly deduce that this is Magic Speak.)

‘Really?’

‘Yup.’

I balance the lid on the bridge’s thick handrail and take a quick sip.

Urgh. Tea . And with sugar .

‘He once told a colleague of mine,’ I say, wincing slightly, ‘that a close relative of hers would lose a limb…’

Punk’s Not smirks. ‘Yeah. Bly . I know all about that…’

‘And then he did,’ (I ignore him), ‘in an accident.’

‘Ever happen to meet her dad?’ Punk’s Not asks (a single brow raised, satirically).

I shake my head. ‘You?’

He shakes his, too. ‘Nope. But Hilary knew all about him from Bly’s idle chat in the office. A hopeless alcoholic, apparently. Works…’ He pauses, for effect. ‘On a threshing machine.’

‘ Fuck .’ I nearly snort tea all over him.

He grins. ‘I mean credit where credit’s due, eh ?’

I take another sip of tea. The tea is good, in actual fact.

‘Never waves,’ Punk’s Not muses. ‘Not a waver.’

‘Hilary?’

He nods.

‘Probably frightened his scarf might topple off.’

‘You neither,’ he observes.

Huh ?

‘That’s true,’ I say eventually.

‘Nor Aphra,’ he continues. ‘She never waves.’

This news surprises me.

‘I generally find that the people most committed to the spectacle,’ he says, ‘who feel a real part of it, are the ones who rarely wave.’

I frown.

‘How about you?’

He shakes his head. ‘But then I’m working , aren’t I?’

I pause, mid-sip.

‘And I feel sorry for the guy,’ Punk’s Not continues. ‘He’s waving all bloody day. It’s like people come and they wave. But there’s thousands of them. And they all want something from him. That contact. That moment of intimacy. It’s a complex exchange. And I think it probably takes its toll on him, psychologically.’

‘But he likes to wave,’ I say. ‘And he likes to have a toll taken,’ I add.

‘I read somewhere that Blaine’s most satisfying moment when he was buried alive for that week in New York,’ Punk’s Not says, ‘was when he finally learned the art of pissing and waving at the same time. When he overcame all his inhibitions and could do both, without thinking.’

‘Where’d you read that?’

‘Don’t remember. But isn’t that so magicianly ?’ he chuckles. ‘You know, just finding that special little knack, that tiny, vaguely socially unacceptable trick, then diligently perfecting it.’

‘I suppose it is,’ I say.

( Magicianly , eh?)

‘And apparently his catheter wasn’t the right size on that stunt, so he found himself pissing down on to his sheets all week.’

He grins. ‘I mean can you imagine how much that coffin stank when he actually came out of it?’

‘I’ve observed before,’ I say (keen not to be left behind), ‘how incredibly ill-prepared he sometimes seems. In the Ice Challenge he simply “forgot”, at the last minute, to put his knee-pads on. And this was after months of training himself to sleep standing up, which he couldn’t actually do without wearing the pads in case he stuck to the ice and couldn’t get off.’

‘There’s a really classic story from that Frozen in Time thing,’ Punk’s Not sniggers (I note how he’s memorised all the official titles and secretly despise him). ‘They apparently had this kid out the back hoovering up all the melted ice as the glacier defrosted, and at one point he wasn’t paying proper attention and he hoovered up this long transparent tube …’